


Pretense

by KuriQuinn



Series: Karma [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Feels, Fluff, Indra is in denial, Married Couple, Married Sex, Missing Scene, NSFW, Original Character(s), Samsara Missing Scene, indrachi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 21:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriQuinn/pseuds/KuriQuinn
Summary: Their relationship works because of carefully maintained fictions - lies he tells himself, lies he tells her. Lies she allows him to tell.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz Media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. You will be smothered by tatami mats should you be found plagiarizing.  
> Warning: Spoilers for pretty much everything up to Chapter 699. NSWF themes. Minor spoilers for my its parent fic, Samsara  
> Fanon-Compliance: Takes place within the Samsara timeline.

There’s a certain protocol to it all by now, and yet it still always seems new to him.

He will enter their quarters after a long day and she will always be there to greet him. She asks after his disposition, his students, and whether she should have food brought to him. She can decipher the most concise vocalisation with unfailing accuracy and, even more surprising, seems to read his silences as if they are sermons.

It’s a feat none of Indra’s closest advisors or disciples have claim to, and yet he finds himself unaccountably pleased by the fact.

She will usher him to sit, and then help him to remove his shoes, though they both know he can do this himself. Sometimes she will have a basin with warm water and soft linens ready, and while he has been bathing himself for decades, he allows her to carry on her ministrations. She insisted once that it’s her duty as his wife, but he couldn’t help noticing the fleeting spark in her eyes when she said it; it’s the same glimmer of mischievousness their eldest displays when she imagines she has gotten away with something illicit.

He knows it’s an excuse to touch him without overtly suggesting affection – after all, he isn’t interested in that sort of thing – yet he allows her to keep up the ruse. There’s a soothing calm in the feel of her gently running the warm cloth across his face and neck, of her fingers slowly combing the dirt from his hair, or clucking over the callouses on his hands and feet.

Sometimes he’ll let her fuss – she’ll ramble about her day midwifing babies and healing broken bones and breaking up squabbles between neighbours (she has far more patience for diplomacy than he has) and finally finding a remedy for their teething son –

And some days, like today, he doesn’t want to hear of anything beyond these four walls.

As she reaches for the basin once more to wring out the cloth, he stretches out and gently tugs at her wrist, forcing her to drop her burden. In one fluid movement, he pulls her forward until she is seated sideways on his lap, a delicate hue of rose blossoming across her cheeks. He is already hard at this point, and she can no doubt feel that through their clothing, but she is far from nervous. The widening of her pupils and the hitch of her breath suggest anticipation, not discomfort.

And yet she looks away from him, beginning to undo the fastenings of his robes with an air of great focus, acting utterly unaffected.

Sometimes she does this quickly and effectively, acknowledgement of his preference for a quick fulfilment of both their needs. Sometimes she takes her time, and it’s a slow, methodical stripping of his garments that has his him swallowing in impatience and trying to remind himself that he is above the furious need to rut like an animal.

He refuses to entertain the thought that he actually prefers the slower way. There are rules to their trysts, after all, though neither of them has ever voiced this.

As she slides his clothing from his shoulders, her breath tickles his face, and he feels his own cheeks begin to warm; rather than let her see, he rests his forehead against her collar bone, carefully helping her out of her robes as well. His hand slips beneath the fold of fabric, brushing against the skin of her ribs and he feels her shiver. Lips brush the side of his temple, obscured by his hair, and it’s easy to pretend it is simple proximity instead of purpose.

Still, his unoccupied hand cups the back of her head, fingers weaving through her thick locks to undo the modest _kanzashi_. Her hair falls like a curtain between them, and his fingers trail through it for a while, before settling to caress the back of her neck.

Somewhere through all this, the clothing between them disappears. Her robes pool around them on the floor, leaving her utterly bare to him, while his garments tangle around his waist.

He is always struck by her fragility in these moments, even though he more than anyone else knows her strength. This woman endured years of abuse heaped upon her by blood kin, and still remained unbroken. She has supported him in everything he did, not – as with most others – out of fear, but a puzzling faith and unquestioning support. She has endured the dangers of childbirth twice on his behalf, and even now is –

Well. Best not to think about that right now. Best to keep up the pretense.

But the rounded curve of her stomach tells him he won’t be able to keep that up for much longer.

He gathers her closer, feels the lines and curves of her body against his, the shiver as their skin touches, and moves his mouth across her exposed shoulder, grazing his teeth upward along the line of her neck. She sighs his name, and he can’t help the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Because his wife is always so proper, speaking so respectfully and refraining from any attempt to be familiar with him. But here in this place, she abandons it, and the sound of his name falling from her lips makes him feel more formidable than when she calls him “my lord”.

The constant presence in his head has warned him that this doe-eyed creature in his lap could conceivably wield more power over him than anything or anyone else ever has. He ought to remain wary of this.

But in moments like this one, he can block the voice out with an ease he has never had before.  

Indra lifts her then and carries her to their bed, depositing her lightly in the centre and climbing over her. She doesn’t stay on her reclined, instead reaching out with one hand to tug at his jumbled robes, trying to push them further down his waist, while her other slides across his chest.

His eyes close, and he allows himself a moment, hands clenching and unclenching against his sides at the sensation of her nails trailing lightly against the plains of his abdominals. On a rougher pass upwards she scrapes a particularly sensitive part of his chest, making him flinch; he almost releases an noise of pleasure and her eyes darken in speculation.

Impatiently, Indra bats her hands away, not wanting to get lost in the sensation. He quickly strips his remaining clothes and rearranges himself over her, pressing close enough to her that his erection rests against her thigh, but keeping his weight from falling forward on her with his right elbow. His left hand reaches up to stroke her breasts, palming them gently one at a time.

Their youngest has been weened for half a year now, but she is still sensitive here, and just the pads of his fingers tracing the swell has her making tiny, mewling noises in her throat. Her gaze try to focus on his face as he continues to trace the dips and lines, of her – the permanent markings of her being _his_ – but there is a glaze in her eyes. Soon she clenches them shut, biting down on her lips, as if she too is trying to hold her reactions at bay.

Giving in to his attentions, she relinquishes a little more of her feigned inhibition – her hands slide across his shoulders and into his hair. In tandem with his caresses she tugs at the strands, eliciting sharp jolts of mixed pain and pleasure that distract him. For several seconds he loses himself, the feel of her pulling desperately at him and the sound of her pulse and breathing; he doesn’t realise he has been rocking his hips into hers until frissons of pleasure begin to build in his spine.

He needs a moment to reclaim his senses.

The hand massaging her breasts pulls away – she makes a noise of protest – and reaches down to travel another well-worn path. Her complaint dies, choked by a gasp as he slips his fingers between her thighs, finding familiar warmth there. Her legs fall open, hips straining upward to allow him better access and her body shudders.

Indra sets about exploring with broad sweeps and touches, stroking between her wet folds until her head knocks backward against their bed. He holds off as long as possible before he seeks out the bundle of nerves above her entrance, the spot he knows will make her entire body jolt.  She shifts beneath him, making noises bordering on impatience; she hasn’t fallen into begging yet, and he can’t decide if that’s something he wants today.

Sometimes he needs it – needs to hear someone begging for pleasure, instead of for mercy in the face of death.

He never wants to hear the latter from her lips, and it’s this rather dark thought that has him finally give in and swipe his thumb across the sensitive bundle of flesh. She cries out something wordless, but unquestionably encouraging, and he repeats the move. Concentrating on that one spot, occasionally slipping his fingers inside to gauge how ready she is; each time, he is rewarded with a sharper intake of breath, a deeper moan.

One of her hands flies from his hair around his neck, gripping his shoulder and trying to pull him closer; he offers her reprimand with a purposeful twist of her fingers, and she whimpers, hand slipping from his shoulder, accidentally scraping nails down his back.

He can’t help the growl this time, but by the time he reasserts control over himself, he discovers she’s snuck her other hand downward, expertly wrapping around him.

Now the sound he makes is of surprised pleasure, and he folds forward, forehead once more pressed against her collarbone as he strokes him. It’s not tentative, the way she touched him in their first months of marriage, but long and slow, purposefully tightening her grip on him on the downward stroke, the way he didn’t even know he enjoyed until she tried it the first time.

His moan build in his throat, but he still holds back, biting into her skin to muffle the sound. At the same time he thrusts two fingers a little harder, a little deeper into her and it’s her shout that escapes instead. Her thighs shake, and he knows that means she’s close – they both are, and if they just continue in this way it won’t be long –

No. This act is meant to serve a purpose. It’s not simple pleasure, losing himself in her, he can’t –

He pulls away, again ignoring her moan of objection, and positions himself beside her, gently manoeuvering her to face away from him. They’ve done this before, too, and she is quick to catch on. She readjusts herself, helping him pull her knee and leg back over his hip, shifting to allow his other arm to slip between the dip of her waste and the bed beneath them, clutching her close while the tip of his cock brushes against her entrance.

He tells himself that the logic in taking her from behind is not out of consideration for the growing roundness of her belly, or any personal enjoyment of this position (even if it does allow their joining to last longer). It’s simply a way of remaining detached – to not be drawn into watching her face as she breaks apart beneath him.

To resist the temptation of seizing the lips she bites down on to stifle her cries.

He refuses to be as weak as any other man, turned into a quivering mass merely by a woman’s embrace. Perhaps to punctuate that thought, as soon as he has a good hold on her elevated leg, he thrusts forward without any warning.

She keens as he thrusts into her, and it’s immediately clear she has no objections to his level of force. In fact, her hips snap back into his own, driving him more deeply into her. Indra shudders; the sensation of her tight, willing warmth around him is always astonishing, robbing him of thought and logic and everything beyond the need for more.

Soon, they fall into a familiar rhythm.

Slow, deep thrusts, breath falling into sync and hearts racing, her hand back in his hair; his grip on her knee tightens, and she’ll have bruises tomorrow he knows, but it’s –

Indra gasps then, because the fingers that aren’t desperately scraping against his scalp have manoeuvered down the line of her body, and are now touching the place where they are joined. From the desperate movements, he knows she is chasing her own pleasure, but the way her fingers also brush against the length of him as he slides in and out adds a new dimension to the sensation. And from the twitching and tightening at the base of his spine, he knows he won’t be able to endure it for much longer.

He can’t break before her. He never allows himself to, that would defeat the purpose of _all_ of this.

With supreme effort, he stretches his left hand farther around her, straining through the indentation between futon and her body. Reaching up to clutch at her breast, his tweaks the hardened nipple in concert with his thrusts.

It has the desired effect. Her head knocks back into his sternum, a sharp cry punching out of her –

_“Indra!”_

Her inner walls tighten around him like a vice, and he barely manages another thrust, unintelligible curses muffled in the round of her shoulder, before he seizes. Pleasure rips through him as his vision whites out against the back of his eyelids.  

In the minutes afterward, he doesn’t pull away, even as he begins to soften within her. Their skin is slicked with sweat and other wetness, but he remains pressed against her back, feeling the beat of her heart against his own. The hand that held her knee has relinquished it, in favour of wrapping around her middle, hand fitting across the curve of her abdomen.

Absently, he strokes the bulge there, dimly imagining a future where he feels tiny beats of resistance from within.

At some point, her hand covers his, thumb rubbing circles across his knuckles. Part of him is conditioned to pull away, to create distance – in a way, it _this_ is far more intimate than what they just shared.

But he lets himself, for one moment, enjoy this peace.

It never lasts long.

She is the first to break the silence, as usual.

Voice lazy and sated, she asks quietly, “Do you want a boy or a girl this time?”

Indra tenses, pausing in his ministrations. She has voiced the truth they have both been avoiding, the fact which will mean he can no longer pretend. Once it’s spoken out loud, there is no longer an excuse for these late-night encounters. After all, if it weren’t for the need to beget heirs, he should be spending his time meditating or training himself; not not giving in to pleasures of the body.

Of _her_ body.

He begins to pull away, but her fingers tighten around his.

“If I were with child again,” she says quickly, obviously having caught her own unthinking mistake. “When we…when we know. What would you hope for?”

He smirks coolly against the nape of her neck.

It’s an obvious misstep, and her recovery isn’t even a graceful one, but it’s just enough that he can pretend to believe it.

For a few more nights, at least.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and slowly resumes his careful exploration of the skin beneath her abdomen. “Any child of ours will be strong.”

Once, he would only have said ‘child of mine’, but she has shown herself to be an uncommonly strong woman. If not physically than in other ways; his acknowledging her as the mother of his children is her right.

“I hope…” she begins, relief in her voice as he settles against him, “I mean, it would be nice if we were to have children that took after you a little more, my lord husband.”

And there’s the honorific again. The charade continues, then.

He thinks on her words, and knows she means his looks – after all, he is a difficult man and their children already take after him in disposition – but he simply replies, “Yes. Another Sharingan would be helpful to my cause.”

She sighs then, a tiny, barely perceptible sound that carries an unexpected weight. He can’t quite decipher it – disappointment, or regret or worry, maybe – but he chooses not to dwell on that. That might suggest he cares, and as his predilection for pretense has shown, he can’t afford that.

Instead, lets his fingers wander lower once more, maintaining that it’s not a distraction, but him simply being thorough.  

終わり

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!
> 
> クリ


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